maybe it's just me, but i think stories and pillows are apart of the same family.

they may even be siblings. that's a thought, eh?

I think a story--to the reader at least--should feel like a home. even if it is temporary. you see, i read veeeeeery sloooooowly. sometimes it takes me months to finish one medium-sized novel. the fact that i like words doesn't help either. i'll re-read and re-read and re-read a single paragraph just so i can completely understand where the author was coming from, and where he or she plans to take me. i become a part of the stories, or rather, the stories become a part of me. oh, and i'm committed too. i'll stick with a story 'til the bitter end. even if (while i'm supposed to be reading it) it puts me to sleep, makes me yawn, makes me think of my To-Do list, makes me think of who I need to call, how bangin' that salad was this afternoon, Did I forget to get my laundry out this morning? I need to call Grandma. What am I going to cook for dinner. I DO NOT feel like doing my hair. Oh My God, get me off this train.

Eh-hem. As I was saying... I'm committed. and it's funny b/c i've always been like this. I remember when I was younger, my mother would take me to the library when we lived in Kansas City. there was a children's section, and I used to love going to the Table With The Puzzles. they had little wood sticks on them, so that little hands could grip the images, and fit into the right spot. i loved the process of choosing a book. that slightly used, but still in tact look and feel. i was a part of a chain of words. this book had passed through several hands, and now it was my turn to see what all the fuss was about. we'd head to the counter, check it out, and go one about our way. me, eventually off to some fairy-tale La La Land. the bookstore was the shit too. i LOVED going to the bookstore to get a new Berenstein Bears book. They were my favorite characters. Mama, Papa, Sister, Brother. I remember wishing they could get new outfits, and that they had funner names, but b/c they'd taken me through so many adventures, i forgave them.

berenstein bears became baby-sitters club became R.L. Stein. i lived for R.L. Stein. His teen murder-slasher-mystery series, "Fear Street," had me captivated. for the first time, a story stretched my limits in a different sort of way. as a child, stories taught me about social things: the meaning of friendship, sharing, playing by the rules, but these stories had me at the edge of my seat. gripping the sides of the chair, biting my nails, wanting so bad to flip to the back of the book...i couldn't get enough. i fell deeper in love.

i grew out of r.l. stein. i got older, and the stories stayed the same. kept the same formula. from then on, it was mostly required reading for school. i was in high school, so there was always a book assignment. catcher in the rye, jane eyre, to kill a mockingbird. all very lovely, but nothing jaw-dropping.

until

the bluest eye made its way into my life. toni morrisson's tale of a young black girl in a blue-eyed world, registered with me. showed me that there's strength in the black female voice. that emotions, catastrophe, love, history...everything could put down on paper with such grace, elegance, and intelligence--and even published! and recognized! i wanted to do it too. i wanted to capture words and use them to my advantage. i, too wanted to wrangle truth and pain and experience and life and serve it with pride as fiction.

i was destined to write. to make fluffy pillows for people to rest on, for, i don't know a week? a month? however long it takes you to read. i feel as if i'm here to deliver messages, or maybe just one. somehow, i feel this journalism path that i've been sent on is practice for the main event. i don't know when, how, or why, but as they say at my church, "I am open to receive."

that's my story. (i hope you weren't thinking about your To-Do this whole time...)

heatwaves

i spent the three summer months in the sun...frolicking.

i've frolicked away my three months twice before, actually.

Frolick Case #1: The summer before my freshman year of college i went to the inner harbour on a blazin hot day with my best girlfriend. as we're walking around, she recognizes two guys from her former high school. my eyes landed on the brown, chunky one with a short fade. his, on the awkwardly cute, braces-sportin me. i'd successfully completed my coming of age, right-of-passage, attitude-changing introduction to black history, so we chatted about Huey P. Newton, Assata Shakur, and "The Man." He told me about a new guy he'd heard recently named Kanye West. told me I should check him out. I think i said I'd heard of him before. that summer, we hit up burger king, the movies, and the mall.

at the end of the summer, he dumped me. at his going away/high school graduation cookout, i told him i loved him, even tho i knew it wasn't true. the next afternoon, he called me while i was at work, manning the phone for an echoey half-empty retirement home for nuns. he told me that he wasn't interested in seeing me anymore b/c he was goin off to college where the women would be flowing, along with the beer. he also added: "I don't like girls who fart. You have no poise."


Frolicking Case #2: The spring of freshman year, I'm waiting in line to participate in one of those psychology studies where they give you $10 bucks for filling out some random survey. he stood standing against the wall. grey sweatpants, black Timbs, and a long sleeve, black shirt. long and lean. my heart exploded. from then on, i kept an eye out for him on campus, putting a little extra effort in my appearance just in case i got a sweet surprise. saw him one day during our campus-wide spring festival, walking w/ a friend of mine. that day i pulled my friend aside, and asked him to put in a good word for me. a few days later, i'd given him my number, and down the yellow brick road we strolled. that summer i stayed out waaaaaaay past my curfew. pushed buttons, put my heart out on the line, and got my hands dirty.

those days turned into three and ahalf years.

aside from the hurt, heartache, anguish, headaches, girl-you-need-to-leave-him-alones, low self-esteem and self worth, stubbornness, neediness, and mindlessness he ushered me into young womanhood. showed me everything i needed to see about myself. helped me to recognize an elevated level of thinking and being. through (despite?) the miscommunication i sought and achieved clarity. the glass may not be crystal clear, but i'm on my way. and for that, I thank him.


Frolick Case#3: almost a full year after being youthful in the big city, i decided to take a walk one saturday afternoon. visited a section of the city that i'd never explored. union square. browsed the different stands of t-shirts, photography, paintings, and odd and ends. bought a pin to put on my jacket. i kept along the path, and stopped to flip through some guy's crate lined with prints of graffiti shots. my eye caught the glimpse of a mahogany brown dread, skin sprinkled with gold. i smiled, he smiled back. going off of instinct, vibes, and a warm spring day, we ended up perched on bar stools. exchanging life stories, glories, and dreams. as the sun peaced-out, we walked to the train, gave him my number, and went our separate ways. i crossed my fingers that he'd call.

for three months, mahogany brown dread consumed me. never before had all my senses been engaged. he met me half way. "two peas in a pod," he said. and with that, he gave our feelings a home. created a warm environment for growth, yet gave me enough space to be myself. his mystery and generosity excited me and i felt the urge to romp in his energy 24/7.

you know how people always say, "when you're looking for love, you'll never find it. as soon as you let go and love yourself, here it comes knocking on your door." well, that summer, after i finally released the king-fu grip i had on Frolicking Case #2, my heart began to flutter, and it hasn't stopped since...

The Magical $1 Purse

On a random day off from work i decided to go for a walk. i was feeling a little down, and needed some sun and community to lift my spirits. it was mid-day. wait. maybe it was closer to sun down. yeah, sundown. I passed by a small shop with open doors, soft gospel cracking from the radio, and a handfull of plastic bins outside. each brimming with knick knacks, colors, and old clothes. wasn't in any kind of hurry, so i dived in to see what i could find. picked up a pukey-grey leather purse with a broken zipper. it beamed with character. i carried it inside to ask about the cost, and found a shop full of old ladies selling second-hand clothes: hats, shoes, sweaters you name it. "HI, how much is this?" i asked the first lady i saw. she smiled. her cranberryrimmed church hat outlined her face. she baby-stepped her way over to the bosslady (a brown woman who looked as if she could use a good back massage, or warm foot rub). from her cluttered corner, she muttered, "One Dollar." My excitement must have registered with the cranberryrimmedchurchhatlady b/c she directed me to a rack of other purses. sequined whites, shimmery golds, and basic black. my eyes zeroed in on a homely forest green one w/ wrap around strap. "3 dollars" she said. i was hooked. i went on to play with scarves and belts, and even browsed through the jackets and sweaters, and jibber jabbed with a 2 year old boy carrying a clear plastic purse.

fast-forward about two weeks (actually today).

i'm waiting outside for my friend and i'm wearing the "One Dollar" purse. the zipper's still broken but i'm hoping no one will notice. as i'm looking at the broken zipper that i'm hoping no one will notice, my eye catches the site of paper off in a tiny corner. i look closer to see if there's a hole, or if the two bucks i'd stuffed in there earlier somehow made their way to small corner. i have no idea.

to my surprise, delight, pleaure, euphoria, eureka, omg, wtf, can this be true?

i pull from a small pocket (on the right hand side) a roll of bills wrapped around some plastic-rectangle, number thingie. i unfold the bills and count out $41 bucks. yes. $41 bucks. tucked in a tiny pocket in a pukey-grey purse that i paid One Dollar for from a plastic bin in a small shop on a sunny (but inside, cloudy) day.

I went out and bought wooden frames and a shitload of acrylic paint.